Douglas Niles: Feathered Dragon

“Perhaps nothing could save Nexal,” Hal suggested. Though the city had been magnificent, he couldn’t forget the files of captives that had been claimed daily by the priests of Zaltec, their hearts offered to their bloodthirsty god. The whole image was one of vast and sinister darkness, an evil that could not long remain upon the world.

“Remember, your cloak saved our lives on the Night of Wailing.”

“That it did,” Erixitl admitted. She leaned against her husband. “And for all the terror and fear we’ve experienced since then, I would not want to relinquish one minute of the time we’ve had together.”

“There will be many more,” Hal promised, and he made the vow deep in his heart

He took her in his arms and held her against the chill of the night that now surrounded them. She melded to him, and for a time, they knew of no one, of nothing beyond themselves.

And for that too-brief time, they had all that they needed.

Smoke drifted upward from the mound of shattered stone that once had been the Great Pyramid of Nexal. The surrounding space of the sacred plaza, now torn, buckled, and cracked, stretched like a hellish wasteland of steaming ruin.

Still, the site remained sacred, for here had been buried, centuries earlier, the sacred talisman of the Nexalan tribe. It lay in the ruins now below the torn surface of the plaza and the shattered pyramid, yet not lacking in potency.

This talisman was a pillar of sandstone, discovered by a devout cleric of Zaltec many centuries earlier. Legend claimed that this pillar had come to life, speaking as Zaltec to the cleric, commanding him to lead his people on an epic pilgrimage. It had been borne by the wandering tribe of the Nexal until they had come to this valley and claimed this island as their home.

Before they erected the first pyramid to their hungry god, they had buried the pillar in the earth below the temple site. As succeeding generations had expanded the tribe’s influence, they had also added layer upon layer to the simple pyramid. At last the structure had become the Great Pyramid of Nexal, even as its people became masters of the True World. And always, at the base of the towering pyramid, the sandstone pillar formed its solid foundation. it symbolized the deep and abiding power of the god, much as the looming volcano overhead had come to represent his fiery and explosive hunger.

Months had passed since the eruption of the great volcano, Zatal, yet still the waters in the valley seethed with heat, and gouts of foul gas exploded upward with unpredictable violence.

The island that had once sheltered the humans and their great city of Nexal now suffered the anger of the gods. Great cracks scored the land, filled with black water or bubbling, steaming muck. The fabulous wealth of its gold had sunk into darkness, buried beneath stone and dirt and flesh, while its art, its pluma feathermagic, its brilliant mosaics and magnificent architecture, all vanished in the violence of the destruction.

Around the shore, the other towns and cities of the valley lay wracked and abandoned. Once fertile fields had been flooded by the ancient clear waters of the lakes and now stood as vast swamps, steaming and fetid, or even poisoned by the foul spume from the still-smoldering mountain.

Dark creatures moved about here, shadowy beasts of tusk and fang, leering hatefully through the murk at the world that had cursed them to their fate. AH humans who had not fled had long since perished by the tusk and claw of the city’s current masters.

The greatest of these monsters dwelled in the ruins of the pyramid itself. Hoxitl, once high priest of Bloody Zaltec, now became his master’s ultimate tool. His grotesque body towering to a height of twenty feet, Hoxitl’s face bore no resemblance to its formerly human nature.

Instead, a great protruding muzzle snapped savagely, revealing row upon row of sharp, wickedly curving fangs. His arms and legs, long and sinewy, ended in hooked talons, while a long tail, tipped with venomous barbs, lashed behind him. A thick mane surrounded his head, a mane of blood-caked, thick fur that bristled when he vented his rage. And now Hoxitl knew naught but rage.

Often did the beast curse his master-Zaltec, god of war- who had condemned him to this fate. Yet at the same time and despite his most venomous curses, Zaltec ruled him yet. On those rare occasions when a human was found hiding among the rubble of Nexal, the captive was always dragged, shrieking in terror, to Hoxitl. Leering over the pathetic victim, Hoxitl would tear out his heart and then cower, offering the gory sacrifice upward in craven obeisance to his ruling god. Always Haiti prayed for the guidance of Zaltec, for the beast could form no ideas of his own.

One of these victims, an old man who accepted his faith with the stoicism of a true believer, finally seemed to provoke a response. Haiti tossed the heart into the maw of the shattered statue that had once represented the god Zaltec. As he did so, he felt a rumbling, centered deep within the earth, far below his feet.

The cleric-beast moaned in terror, remembering the wrack visited upon him during the Night of waiting. All around him, the craven creatures of his cult howled in fright and cowered in any niche they could find, fearing the further wrath of their master.

A great shaking and crashing shook the ruins of the temple, and Hoxitl prudently backed away as large boulders rumbled from the pile. A form rose from the wreckage, stonelike of visage and mountainous in size, driving back the rubble as it slowly emerged from the ground.

At last it stood like a monolith, high over the head of even the towering Hoxitl. Around him his creatures cringed, begging for mercy, but the cleric-beast stepped boldly forward and knelt before the form.

For the stone pillar before him, he knew, was none other than Zaltec himself, the god of war. For long centuries, he had lain at the center of the pyramid, buried beneath the layers of construction added by successive Revered Counselors of Nexal. But now, unconstrained by the city and the faiths above, he emerged as a mighty colossus, and he made his will known to Hoxitl.

And Hoxitl knew that Zaltec still favored him. Despite his misshapen form, despite the wracking of his people and his world, Hoxitl howled his gratitude.

“My Master! You speak to me! I am your slave!”

An image jolted Hoxitl to his full height, an image of blood and death and fire.

“War!” Hoxitl gloated. “Master, I shall make war in your honor! I shall lay waste to all who do not hail your name!

“My creatures!” He summoned his followers to him with a vibrant command. Despite their fear of the colossus, they heard Hoxitl and they obeyed. “We go forth to make war in the holy name of Zaltec!”

He howled and cursed his creatures, ordering them into ranks and legions. Cuffing and battering the ogres, he sent them to do the same to the ores. He took his fleet, savage trolls and formed companies of death-dealing hate.

The great mass assembled in the ruined center of Nexal. Black and green trolls stood sentinel around the army, their dark, sunken eyes peering suspiciously. They raised great sinewy limbs, clasping their talons at the sky. Some of them carried clubs, or crude stone macas, while others held tattered shields or bore some torn relic of human garb. Others stood naked. But all of them came.

The brute ogres clubbed and whipped the masses of ores, and the smaller creatures scurried to obey their monstrous leaders. The ores gathered in companies with spears and bows and clubs, the weapons they had borne as warriors of the Viperhand.

And the whole rank formed a snakelike column behind their master. Hoxitl raised his voice and stood to his full height so that he towered over even the trolls. He led them across the ruined causeway, past the festering mire of the smoking lakes, and then took them southward, toward the desert beyond Mount Zatal.